


Cold Comfort

by MMonster



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Attraction, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, NOT Spike/Buffy, NSFW, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Set while Buffy was dead, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-07 05:38:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18404198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MMonster/pseuds/MMonster
Summary: Connection can come from unlikely places, happen with unlikely people. A world without Buffy is something Spike is still getting used to. A life without Tara is something Willow will have to deal with. They find in each other the understanding they need, plus something more.





	1. Chapter 1

A world without Buffy is something he's still getting used to. They all are, really. It has barely been a month since she… 37 days and counting. When Spike wakes up every evening it still takes a moment for him to remember that she's truly gone. His dreams are all about her, but rarely nightmares.

He dreams he saved her. Stopped Glory, protected Niblet as he should. When reality rushes back, it's like losing her all over again. It makes him want to give up on it all. A neutered vampire who lost the one thing he still loved. Buffy thought him incapable of the feeling, but he understands why. Slayer, vampire. Still, it hurts, even now. Mostly now.

But he made her a promise. He will be further damned if he breaks it. So he follows the Scoobies around. Takes care of Dawn. Fights the good fight. Watching the gits suffer over Buffy bonded him to them in a way he never would have thought possible. The bitter way Xander cried at Buffy's funeral. Giles' reluctance to leave, even when he knows he should. Willow's sobs when Buffy was finally lowered into the ground. They had the service on a late afternoon. Spike couldn't help but be thankful, somewhat. He watched from the safe shadow of the trees nearby. Not safe from the waning sun, but safe from invading Buffy's world. An act of respect she wouldn't have thought him capable of.

And Dawn. Little bit, Niblet, she manages to shatter his unbeating heart. He can still remember being human, can still feel the loss of his mother when he was a newly risen vampire as sharply as if it had happened yesterday. So he sees her, and the strength in that silly little girl amazes him sometimes. Or most times. Mother and sister lost in a span of less than a year. Her whole existence shattered by the cruel truth of her origins. And yet, she keeps on going, smiling for the benefit of others. Spike made a promise to Buffy, but deep down he feels like Dawn earns all the protection he can give on her own right.

He's thankful the witches took on the task of raising Dawn. If she left to live with her father… Spike isn't sure what he would do with himself. Keep following the Scoobies around, he supposes. But it wouldn't be the same. They would scatter, he knows. But they conglomerate around Dawn and the Hellmouth, both in constant need of care. And so there's still somewhat of an order to the world. A reason for unliving. Even without Buffy, but because of her.

“Night.” He greets Red when she arrives, school bag on her shoulder and arms full of groceries. He's watching the telly with Dawn, but stands up when he sees her situation. The teenager remains hypnotized by the movie that's on.

“G'night.” She looks about to fall over from the weight. Spike takes the bags from her with no comment and walks to the kitchen. “Thanks.” He still hears her say.

He overhears Willow talk to Dawn while he puts the food away. The witch called him a few hours earlier to request some babysitting, she had errands to run and Tara has night classes. He doesn't mind, truthfully. The highlight of most of his nights is getting to beat up some uglies and playing rummy with Dawn.

When he's done, he returns to the living room. Red is sitting on the couch, almost swallowed by the fluffy cushions, a dejected look on her face. Niblet is nowhere to be seen, but he can hear her walking around upstairs.

“Rough day?” He asks the witch. She looks at him, brown pinched as if she's in pain.

“Long day. Tiring day. Awful, awful day.” She lets out a long sigh.

Spike strides closer, sitting on the coffee table in front of her.

“Everything alright?” He inquires.

Willow looks away, fidgeting with the hem of her patterned shirt.

“Yep, all fine.” Spike can be patient, so he waits. “Just, one of those days, you know? Long and just...” She takes a deep breath. “Me and Tara had a fight.” She says, very quietly.

Spike studies her. Her straight red hair partially hides her face as she looks down. There are bags under her eyes and her usually straight posture is not quite there. He realizes most of the responsibilities, if not all, that were on Buffy's shoulders now rest on Willow's. It's no small burden to bear, he knows. He can appreciate the fact that the witch has, so far, even being made of much weaker stuff than Buffy was. Both literally and metaphorically. Buffy was a natural born leader. Comfortable in her role, despite all hardships. Willow just… isn't. She's a follower, a supporter. A good one, but nonetheless. The role she's now playing is a chore to her in a way it never quite was for Buffy.

“Wanna talk about it?” He offers, unsure how to help. Tara and Willow love each other so much he's sure whatever fight they had won't last. But he understands the hurt.

She shakes her head.

“Not really. We just, disagreed about something.”

“Is that something important?”

Willow takes a moment to answer.

“Very.”

She's looking at him now. Her eyes are very green when she cries, he has noticed. The first time he did was when he kidnapped her to cast the love spell to bring Drusilla back. It gives him shivers, remembering having that much power over a human. Making they cry, hurt. He misses it so much.

Yet, somehow, he feels sorry for Willow. At the same time he remembers frightening a younger, more helpless version of her with nostalgic yearning, he wants to help the Willow in front of him. Just one of the many contradictions of loving the Slayer and, therefore, caring about the people she loved.

“Do you think you two can work it out?” He expects her to say yes immediately. Even with how sad she looks. But she doesn't. She thinks for a long moment, picking at a lose thread on her clothes.

“I don't think so.” Is her very quiet answer.

Now, Spike is befuddled. What could possibly have caused such a disagreement between the perfect couple is beyond him. He scours his brain for any hint, for conversations of them he has overheard in the last few weeks, for issues he has observed but not really cared about, for visual clues, anything.

“Are you two… you know, still together?” He asks at last, brown furrowed in something as close to concern as he can feel. Mostly, he's thinking about Dawn. With the witches broken up… Tara will be another name added to the list of people the girl has in some manner lost.

Willow bites her lower lip so hard he's worried she will hurt herself, holding sobs at bay. She just shakes her head no, tears flowing freely down her face. They smell salty and sweet to his nose, bring up memories of love, violence and loss.

“I-I… It happened after my class. She had a free period before hers. We met up and talked about… one thing I need to do. I just need to do it, Spike.” A sob escapes her. “I need to get it done. But Tara couldn't understand it. She just… I know she's right. I shouldn't but I have to.” She sobs again, pained. “And then I said I would, even without her help I would. She said she couldn't… couldn't watch me destroy myself.”

What on Earth Red wants to do that would generate such refusal from Tara is beyond Spike. But he doesn't ask. Just looks at her as she cries. She isn't even hiding, as he knows would be her inclination. She looks as if there's no strength left in her to.

He opens his mouth, still unsure what to say. But they hear the loud sound of Dawn marching down the stairs. The quickness with which Willow stops crying, dries her face and schools it into neutrality has him genuinely surprised. He would have thought her still incapable of subterfuge of any kind.

“Hey Spike.” Dawn greets them, too self-absorbed to notice the mood of the room. “Willow, I just talked to Janice on the phone. Her mom said it's okay for me to go over. Can I?” She smiles hopefully.

Spike watches Willow watch Dawn. She looks like she's about to say no, but then slumps a little and nods.

“Fine Dawnie. Just be careful, okay? Do you have your Holy Water?”

The teenager rolls her eyes, but plucks a small vial from her back pocket and shakes it for Spike and Willow to see the content. Willow nods and with that Dawn smiles wide, skipping out of the door without so much as waving goodbye. It's Spike's turn to roll his eyes. Niblet sometimes manages to be the most teenager-y teenager he has ever seen in his many years.

He turns his attention back to Red after Dawn leaves. The young woman seems even further deflated now. She isn't crying again, but the defeat in her bearing bothers him for some reason.

He stands up, towering over her.

“Come on, pet. You need to get out of the house, see some new faces, drink yourself silly. I know just the place.”

 

**

 

Spike takes Willow to his favorite demon haunt. It's a fairly civilized one, strict no-violence spells and rules in place to keep the environment pleasant for all. No humans allowed. As a powerful witch, Red walks in with not even a twitch from the incantation.

Shady types litter the booths around. Some look perfectly normal, some don't. Willow takes it in stride, following him in and towards the bar with an apathetic indifference that deeply unnerves him. Whatever went on with Tara, it was the real deal.

“Two bourbons on the rocks. Make mine spicy, will you?” Spike orders, hoping Willow will pay for it since his only source of income is currently scaring school kids near the Bronze.

The bar keeper sets both drinks on the counter, one a normal amber shade and the other a deep red. Spike drinks his up in one gulp, starved for the taste of human blood more than the alcohol. All he can usually afford these days is pig's blood.

Willow doesn't disappoint, swallowing hers down almost as quickly, a frown on her face from the strong taste.

“Two more.” She orders, surprising him.

Spike watches her as she looks around the place, eyes lingering on the weird types, studying them in a manner he can only describe as academic. Like she's cataloging which kinds of demons she sees, even now. Always the nerd. He finds it strangely endearing and a definitive improvement over her apathy of just a few moments before.

Often he finds it difficult to understand why Buffy cared about these people so much. Spike has always thought of them as fairly useless, often hindrances. The Slayer is above things like friends, particularly weak, human friends. The Watcher he can understand. Xander, he still doesn't get, though he can see how the loyalty the boy has for Buffy would be appealing. But for a few years now, and specially this last month, he feels like he sees what Buffy saw in Willow.

There's a strength to her. It's not flashy like Buffy's, it's also not of the same nature. As he has observed, Willow isn't a natural leader. Isn't a dominant personality at all, her presence doesn’t fill up a room like Buffy's did, doesn't turn all eyes to her. Not even now that the witch has allowed herself to dress like the beautiful woman she is. Red slips under everyone's radar. Goes unnoticed unless she's unleashing the power Spike can even now smell coming off of her. But there's a strength to her. A resilience. Something he has seen but now can appreciate in a way he never could with Buffy standing in the same room, outshining everything else.

Willow nurses her second drink a bit slower. But is soon done, asking for a third. This time, she orders a rum and coke. Spike wrinkles his nose at her choice, but as she orders another spiked bourbon for him, doesn't comment.

“I've never been here before. Lived in Sunnydale my whole life, never knew of this place.” Red comments.

Spike grunts in acknowledgment as he drinks.

“Place is cloaked from humans. You should have been able to see it only for a couple of years at most.”

“I can feel it, the magic. Anti-violence spells, too. It's nice, safe. Safer than human places, even.”

“Ironic, isn't it?”

“A bit, yes.” Willow doesn't smile. Her expression doesn't change much at all. It's so uncharacteristic Spike feels like he's talking to someone else.

“It's not the end, you know.” He says in an attempt to address the thing he can see is crushing Willow as she sits beside him. “You could still make up.”

She shakes her head slowly.

“What we fought about… I won't change my mind. She won't either. I don't think...” It looks like it deeply pains her to say this. “I think there's no coming back to us once it's done. Even if it goes well.”

Spike is itching to know what exactly she's talking about, but knows asking isn't how he's going to get an answer. He pushes the vile drink of her choice closer to her, clinks his glass to hers.

“Let's drink to that then, pet.” He does, so does she. Another one and she will be returning home on wobbly legs. She's drinking so fast it hasn't really hit her yet, so it will hit hard when it does.

His intention was to let her drink herself sick. Spike couldn't even feel guilty about it, since he planed on making sure she got home safe and sound. But he thinks twice now. A heart-broken witch puking her guts out can't be a good thing, even if in that scenario she is out of it enough to spill what is it that caused their split in the first place.

So when Willow motions for another, he cuts her off.

“I think that's enough for now, pet.”

She looks at him, frowning.

“Why?”

“You are a hundred pounds soaking wet. One more at this pace and you will be spilling your guts out until morning. Is that what you want?”

“Nope. But-but you said to drink myself silly, mister.” She sways slightly on the bench.

“I think you've already managed that, luv.”

Willow rolls her eyes, a stubborn expression taking over her face. But drunks are easily distracted, so Spike manages to avoid the tirade about how she drinks whatever she wants that he can see coming by asking her what's the species of a tentacled demon sitting by himself on a corner. He's a common type and Willow lights up when she realizes she knows the answer. Spike can only call it cute, in a slightly pathetic way. So grown yet the same old Willow.

They stay at the bar for a good chunk of the night. Red is surprisingly easy to talk to, Spike discovers. He notices he never actually had a full conversation with her, not one just for the sake of talking as they are know. But he discovers she's fairly good company. There's something about how she doesn't shy away from certain subjects that warms him up to her, it's so different from what Buffy was like.

For one, they talk for a full 40 minutes about how the taste of the blood changes from person to person, considering variables like age, gender, health, magic and a vampire's preference. And Willow never calls him a freak, never looks at him weird. She seems fascinated by it, to some extent. She knows how he got the knowledge on the subject but doesn't bring it up, doesn't use it as an excuse to put him down. It's so different from his interactions with Buffy it gives him whiplash. Any reference to what he is, to what he did was enough reason for her to attack him, with blows or words. Willow doesn't seem to feel the same need to constantly remind him that he's a soulless evil thing. Even when he tells her Slayer's blood tastes best, but witches are tasty too.

She blushes at the connotation instead, glancing away. Spike raises an eyebrow at that, remembering how she used to have a crush on Xander, how utterly heartbroken she was when dogboy left. In Spike's view, there's no such thing as 'turning' gay. Willow is certainly hot for the ladies now but she used to be for men as well. That doesn't change, doesn't matter what she liked to tell Tara and even herself to make it better.

That blush staining her face and running down her pale neck when he talks about witches tasting good makes him look at her in a different light, suddenly. Makes him aware of things he had already noticed, some years before, but never lingered on: how impossibly sweet yet powerful she smells, how graceful is the curve of her neck, how fiery her red hair looks at it rests over her skin, how big and innocent her eyes are, her small cute nose, pink lips. How she squirms so endearingly when she's uncomfortable.

She must taste so sweet, he thinks. Both her blood and other parts of her. Her skin looks so soft it's suddenly distracting. But Spike forcibly reminds himself where he is, who he's with. Buffy's best friend. A girl who just lost a perfect love.

They find another subject. But now that the thought was planted Spike can't fully push it away. He pictures himself touching Willow. She's so close. He could slide his hand over hers, on her arms, up her torso, clavicle, neck. Could kiss on it, softly nibble, not enough to risk the chip going off. He imagines her breathy moans at his actions, how she would welcome them. No violence involved, even if the desire for it is a constant itch for him.

With Buffy it was easy to imagine fiery, painful passion. But it doesn't feel quite right for Willow. It would be intense, yes, but there would be no fight for dominance. No need to subjugate. She would slide in the role effortlessly, as it's her nature. She isn't a brainless twit with no will of her own. But a powerful woman who is more comfortable following than leading, who doesn't do so indiscriminately, but slides into it painlessly if she deems someone worth leading.

Spike isn't delusional enough to believe Willow would think of him worthy of leading much. But if, _if_ she ever fell on a bed with him, he knows she would then, in that one context. And in that, he and she could both focus on the pleasure alone. No need for an endless struggle, which can be fun, but also gets old sometimes. Even the unconsumed one he used to have with Buffy did occasionally. He suddenly feels something as akin to guilt as he can manage at that. Both for tarnishing his memory of his relationship with Buffy somewhat and for lusting after her best friend. It's a confusing feeling he isn't built for, but it's there. So Spike pushes it all away.

Willow is very drunk by now. She drank some more, at a much slower pace, after the first ones. She's downright slurring her words and he thinks it a miracle she hasn't been sick yet. So he searches her pockets for a wallet, which she then takes from him and proceeds to pay much over the value of the tab. Spike, as a gentleman, demands part of it back and pockets the money, with no intention of giving it back.

“Hey!” She complains when he leads her out of the place by her arm, even if he does so as gently as her wobbly legs allow. “It-it was a fun night, Spike. We should do this more of-often.” She lets out a drunk sob.

He can't help but laugh.

“We really should, pet. Turns out you're not terrible company.” He continues dragging her on down the street.

“I'm great company! You are too… thanks for listening and-and for taking me out and for the drinks even though I paid for them and I did see you take that money but you can keep it since it was actually nice of you to, you know, go out with me.” She babbles on. Usually he would think similar behavior annoying, but from too-sincere drunken Willow, he finds it makes him feel warmer than the bourbon did.

They trudge on together a bit further, Spike half-carrying the dead weight of the witch – which isn't heavy at all – until he hears her let out a small burp and stop walking completely.

“I don't feel very good.” She says. Right before doubling over and vomiting all over the sidewalk. Spike jumps back to avoid getting any on his shoes, but manages to keep a hand on her so she doesn't topple over.

He sighs.

“Hate saying it, but I told you so, pet.” She doesn't have enough presence of mind to bother answering that.

The Summer's house is still a ways away, so Spike turns directions a bit, going for his crypt, which is much closer. Red needs some water and to just lie down somewhere safe, as soon as possible.

Spike carries her bridal style for the rest of the way. He would have used a fireman's carry if he didn't think she would vomit all over his back, but he would rather avoid that particular unpleasantness. He thanks all devils for plumbing once he gets there and can direct Willow to his newly finished bathroom. She hugs the toilet in a classical drunken stupor and proceeds to vomit for a good hour, few stops.

He leaves her to it. Goes, drinks a bit of blood, watches some telly. When he hears silence from the bathroom he gets a bottle of water he keeps here for Dawn. Willow is still hugging the toilet when he steps in. She looks downright pathetic. It's funny, but he refrains from laughter when he sees she is crying.

He opens the bottle and offers it to her. She takes it, washing her mouth and spitting in the bowl. She takes a few sips.

“Do you feel well enough to lie down?” He asks, gently. She nods, slowly, like the motion might make her sick again.

He hoists her body up carefully and drags her slowly to his bed. She managed to avoid vomiting on herself, so he feels okay with letting her sleep there. Just in case, he puts a bucket to the side of her on the floor and makes sure she knows where it is.

She's fast asleep in 10 seconds flat from lying down. Spike refuses to let her presence put him out of his own bed, so he just takes off his shoes, coat and shirt and lies down beside her. He prefers to sleep on the nude, but the pants are one small allowance he can make for her sensibilities.

He isn't sure if it's because she's drunk, but Willow snores very softly as she sleeps. Either way, he can't wait to make fun of her for it in the morning. He can already imagine her face when she awakes, confused and ashamed. Adorable. He doesn't notice that, for the first time since her death, Buffy isn't the last thing he thinks about before falling asleep. Nor are his dreams about her. And when he awakes, the first thought in his head is not about her, but about why there's a warm, human body hugging him in his sleep. Turns out Willow is a cuddler.

He smiles diabolically when he remembers the night before, picturing the witch's face when she wakes up to find herself in this position. Not one for delayed gratification, Spike pokes her softly on the ribs.

“Good mornin', luv.” Willow squirms against his body, which stirs something else, before opening her eyes slowly. She looks so peaceful for a moment it's sweet. Until realization slides in and she notices who she is clutching and what is the hard thing poking her belly.

Her eyes widen comically and Spike can't help it. He lets out a full, loud laughter. One he feels like he hasn't since long before Buffy was gone. Willow, who jumps back from him like she was electrocuted, looks at him like he's off the deep end. Until eventually she starts giggling as well. 

Spike isn't sure what to do with the warmth in his chest when both of them finally stop laughing, long minutes later, looking at each other. All he knows is that he doesn't mind it, being here. Not at all, not right now. It may change later but, for now, he's… happy. Here, with Willow, who will soon be back to being a wreck of herself, no doubt, but is now also smiling. A soft smile. No bitterness in it. No accusations. Just plain old happiness.

Spike doesn't know what to do with any of this. But he finds he enjoys it very, very much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings on end notes.
> 
> Enjoy!

Spike walks into the kitchen as if he owns it, bellowing coat and all. Dawn, who is sitting by the counter dutifully eating the peanut butter and jelly sandwich Willow was able to slap together in short notice, smiles at him, waving.

“Hey, Spike.” She says.

“Bit.” He responds.

Buffybot is sitting on a stool, belly opened, face blank in that creepy way she gets when turned off. Willow is busily tweaking at her hardware. Barely one hour into her patrol and the robot came back with a busted circuit from a knife to the stomach. Willow is just grateful it didn't hit anything too major. She's no slouch at robotics – or most subjects, really – but as much as it may pain her to admit it, Warren has a gift.

Still, she spares a moment to glance at the vampire, who's leaning on the counter near Dawn and looking at Willow expectantly.

“Hi, Spike.” It takes a moment for her brain to compute, while attempting to fix the busted machinery as quickly as possible, that she didn't call on Spike for babysitting tonight.

She glances at him again and finds the vampire still staring, but not at her. At the bot.

“All done!” The witch celebrates, pressing on a button inside Buffybot's belly to turn her on before closing it.

“Hello, Willow. You're my best friend, how are you?” Is the robot's greeting as she blinks awake.

Willow smiles softly at her.

“I'm great, thanks. Do you feel good enough to go back to patrol now?”

The android nods resolutely, before turning to Dawn.

“Make sure to finish your dinner. A growing body needs a lot of nutrients.”

“I will, thanks.” The teenager responds in that tentative way she always seems to treat the robot. It makes Willow's heart clench.

Turning to Spike, Buffybot continues.

“That color looks great on you, Spike.” She nods at his blue shirt, an infatuated smile taking over her face. “It really brings out your big, strong muscles.”

Willow cringes at hearing that, expecting a full meltdown or at least a few yells from Spike, as has happened every time he was faced with the robot's programmed love for him. Instead, he surprises her when all he gives is an eyebrow raise. He looks hurt, still, but not angry. It's a first.

Willow hurries to apologize anyway.

“I-I don't know how I missed that. I promise to scrape it, as soon as I have time.”

“Make sure to do that.” He responds dryly, but not aggressively.

“Go patrol, now.” Willow orders the robot, who nods with a big smile before turning and leaving.

When they hear the front door close after her exit, they all seem to collectively exhale in relief. Dealing with the physically perfect simulacrum of Buffy is never easy. Not when the absence of the real one constantly aches like a phantom limb.

Willow takes in a deep breath before turning to Spike.

“So, is everything alright, Spike? It's not that I mind you being here or anything, but I-I didn't call and I think Buffybot can handle the rest of her patrol, probably.” Willow stumbles over herself a little, uncomfortable with asking why Spike is here.

Fortunately, he doesn't seem offended.

“Stumbled on a big nest of Chirago demons. They just came into town, we should get them before they settle in. Very territorial types, those.”

“What do they look like?” Dawn asks, excited.

“Huge, 'bout six hundred pounds, green, horns all over. I would have taken them, but there are too many.”

“Oh, okay. We should go after Buffybot and find them, then.” Willow suggests.

“Not a good idea. They mess with technology, it's a whole thing. Being near them would fry her circuits.”

“Can I goh wih you gwuys?” Dawn talks with her mouth full, before loudly swallowing the last bit of sandwich. “I can help!” She proclaims.

Willow gives her a softly reproachable expression.

“Buffy didn't want you mixed with the slaying, Dawnie. For good reason.” When the teenager looks down, disappointed, the witch approaches her. “Besides, it's nearly time for bed.” She reiterates, giving the girl's shoulder a compassionate squeeze. “I will be back before you know it.”

Dawn sighs.

“Okay. Will Tara come over today?”

Willow glances away, but manages to keep a straight face.

“Uh, no, she, ahn, can't. But I will call Xander to come and keep you company, 'kay?”

Spike studies the interaction closely, but doesn't interfere. After Dawn leaves to watch her soap opera in the living room and Willow finishes talking to Xander over the phone, he moves from the counter, following the witch when she goes for the weapon's chest in the dinning room.

“Should we do some research before going?” She asks, letting Spike have his pick of the weapons.

“Nah, shouldn't be too hard. They are big, strong and have a terrible temperament. But are very sensible to water. We should get some bottles or buckets to take with.”

“No Holy Water? Just normal drinkable water?” She checks. Spike looks at her. He would almost think she's concerned about him.

“It doesn't have to be drinkable.” He answers. Willow's brown is still furrowed. “But no Holy Water needed. Though I suppose it would hurt them, since it's still, ya' know, water. They kill by draining their victims of all moisture. But throw too much of it at them and they can't handle it.”

“Oh, okay.” She seems relieved. “We don't even need bottles. I know this neat little spell that can make it rain.”

“Seems we are good them. Shall we?” He motions for the door.

“Sure. We should wait for Xander to get here first, though.”

With that, the front door swings open and in walks said man.

“Willow, hi, you really should keep this door locked. I know vamps need an invitation but there are other demons that- oh, hey Dawn.” The man nods to the teenager on the couch.

“Sorry, we are just leaving.” Willow says. “But hi.” She walks up and hugs him. “I don't think we will be long. Thank you for coming.”

“Come on, anything for my girls.”

“How did you get here so fast?” Spike interjects, impudently.

Xander deigns him barely a glance.

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“Make sure Dawn sleeps on time.” Willow says.

“Sure, Wills. Be careful.”

With that, they leave the house. Outside, walking down the street, Spikes breathes in the fresh night air. He doesn't need to, but it feels nice. Willow walks beside him, looking down.

“The git has a point. You should lock the doors.” The vampire comments, nonchalantly.

Willow rolls her eyes.

“There's not one single species of demon that would be stopped by a closed door.”

“Well, yes. But the sound of them breaking in would be a warning.”

That makes her stop.

“You are right.” Willow fidgets with the strap of her bag. “I'm a bad caretaker.” She concludes insecurely.

Spike takes pity on her.

“You're doing fine. Just lock the doors.” There's a pause. “And you need to tell her about you and Tara.” He says, almost kindly.

Willow trudges on for a while before answering.

“I-I know. It's just...” She trails off.

“Telling her would make it real?” He looks at the witch, knowingly.

She sighs.

“Yeah, yes. I'm not ready for it to be real-real, you know? Kinda of real at most.” Is her attempt at a joke. It falls flat.

“You still think there's no going back?”

There's a tentative, slightly desperate sort of hope on her face. But it crumbles as soon as it came.

“I hope there is. But I don't know. It was... pretty bad, Spike.”

He gives her a pointed look.

“You should tell the little bit. Before she finds out somewhere else and goes into a snit lasting the rest of the year.”

Willow sighs, defeated.

“I-I will. Soon.”

 

*

 

“Spike! You didn't tell me it would be this much of a mess! I can't walk into the house like this! Do you know how much carpet cleaning costs?” Willow complains loudly, covered almost completely in green slime.

“I didn't know they would explode.” The vampire defends himself, flicking a glob of demon goo from his jacket. “Last one I fought just turned into goo when I got it wet. Maybe it's that little spell of yours that got them too wet, you know.” He turns the blame around.

“You are the one who said we didn't need to research!” Willow exclaims, offended.

“You're the one who believed the evil vampire!” Spike throws it back.

“But-but…” Willow heaves when a bit of goo slides from her face to her mouth. She spits it out. “I don't need this, _Clean_!” She orders, the spell sucks most of the goo off of her, but some is still left on her hair and clothes.

“Hey, can you do that for me?” Spike asks.

Willow does, with similar results. Still, as they walk, some of what is left drips from them.

“You think we can stop by your crypt to clean up a bit first? I wasn't kidding about the carpet.” Willow asks.

Spike rolls his eyes, but nods.

“You know the way.”

They walk away in companionable silence. Or as companionable it can be. Willow occasionally heaves from disgust at the demon goo. It makes Spike smirk in amusement.

“Are you all recovered from the other night?” He starts conversation, tone and bearing of indifference, but still interested in her answer. When Willow left his crypt the morning after getting black-out drunk, she was still stumbling slightly and squinting so hard at the sunlight he wondered how she could see.

“Ugh, I'm never drinking again.” She states. “Took me almost two days not to feel so much like walking, living poop. Though, it was kinda fun while it lasted, you know, during the actual night.”

“I don't remember you having that much fun puking all over my bathroom.”

“I didn't! I aimed very well, I have you know. But I meant before that.”

Spike laughs at her indignation, but nods his agreement.

“Fun it was. If you ever need to drink yourself silly again; or to just drink, give me a knock.” He offers.

Willow sees right through it.

“Yeah, sure, you need someone to pay for your drinks.”

“Of course.” The vampire is unashamed. “But I will admit it wasn't horrible.”

The witch looks at him, green eyes guarded but soft.

“Yes, no horribleness involved. Considering.”

“Considering.” He smiles at her.

Willow feels weird about it. Aside her fuzzy memories of the other night and the following morning, she thinks she doesn't remember Spike ever smiling directly at her. Unless it was a smirk, with a mean edge. But this one is just… almost friendly.

“Or, if you need someone to help you forget Glinda.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“Hey! Gay here!” Willow exclaims at the innuendo. “Besides… too soon, Spike. Give me at least a couple of weeks before cracking jokes about it.” She says, pursing her lips unhappily.

“I'm evil. I can crack all the jokes I want.” Despite that, he doesn't. They walk in silence until finally reach Spike's crypt.

It's the same as Willow remembered, only a bit more dusty. There's a couch, a TV and a fridge on the first 'floor'. When they climb down the stairs, there's the same bed they slept on the other day – Willow blushes a bit at the memory – and the alcove that leads to the bathroom, which she walks straight towards.

“House owners first.” Spike states before outpacing Willow in a few long strides.

“Hey!” He ignores her completely, getting into the bathroom and loudly banging the door shut.

Annoyed, Willow makes sure to sit down right on his bed. But quickly feels guilty about it, since he has been so nice to her lately. So she gets up and uses a spell to clean the small mess.

Spike doesn't take long, too. When he steps out, naked except for a towel around his waist, Willow makes sure to look away, but not after getting an eye-full of the lean, toned muscles of his torso and arms. Suddenly, she feels like she understands Buffybot's remarks better. But if her face feels hot when she crosses him on her way to the bathroom, she assures herself it's only from embarrassment.

*

A cleaning spell on her clothes is much easier and more effective when she isn't wearing them, since there's no need to worry about accidentally cleaning things she shouldn't – like killing all the tiny bacteria that lives on her body and is instrumental in keeping her, well, living too.

So, after a nice shower – Spike's is surprisingly big and with great water pressure – and with clean clothes on, Willow steps out of the bathroom. She didn't even need to use his stuff. He seems to maintain good hygiene; there's soap, shampoo and conditioner in his bathroom. But she summoned her own from home, which she is glad she could, since using his would feel too intimate, somehow.

She finds the vampire lying down on his bed, fortunately fully clothed, a book open on his hands.

“You read?” Willow asks, surprised. She didn't mean for him to hear it, but he glances up, expression closed off in offense.

“Of course I can read, you dim wit.” He closes the book before she can see it clearly, hiding it in his beside table.

“Sorry, I just, you never seemed like the big reading type.” Willow tries.

“Are you saying I look dumb?”

“No, no! You just seem like the 'too cool for school' type, you know? Like you're smart but studying or-or reading is beneath you. You have cooler things to do.” Willow babbles nervously, getting closer but with some trepidation. “What were you reading?” She asks, curious.

Spike sighs, then rises from the bed, opens the drawer and gets the book. He strides close to Willow and offers her the volume.

“The Complete Poems of Emily Dickson.” She reads out-loud. “Oh, I love her work.” Willow opens the book, going to a random page. She reads, voice clear but not loud:

“The heart asks pleasure first,

And then, excuse from pain;

And then, those little anodynes

That deaden suffering;

 

And then, to go to sleep;

And then, if it should be

The will of its Inquisitor,

The liberty to die.” Willow doesn't quite recite it, but pauses in all the right places. Spike watches her as she speaks, drinks in the cadence of her voice, studies how her wet hair falls over her shoulders, tastes on his tongue the smell of cleanliness, floral shampoo and magic coming from her.

 _The heart asks for pleasure first_ , indeed, he thinks, assaulted by visceral, harsh thoughts about the unaware witch. Thoughts of holding her down and taking her, of making her scream and cry before ripping her throat out to drink her powerful blood. Of feeding her his, so she will come back as his childer. Preserved forever as she is, but with no pesky soul or human constitution to slowly corrode perfection with time.

“That one might be my favorite.” He tells her, truthfully. If it wasn't, watching her read it might have turned it so.

Willow grins at him, oblivious to his violent thoughts and desires, happiness from sharing something she loves with someone who gets it shining in her eyes. Still so innocent. Spike curses his chip, his leash, the artificial soul holding him at bay. If only…

“Oh, let me read you my favorite!” She goes through the summary of the book, before flipping to find the page. “Okay, here I go:

This World is not Conclusion.

A Species stands beyond

Invisible, as Music

But positive, as Sound

It beckons, and it baffles

Philosophy, don’t know

And through a Riddle, at the last

Sagacity, must go

To guess it, puzzles scholars

To gain it, Men have borne

Contempt of Generations

And Crucifixion, shown

Faith slips – and laughs, and rallies –

Blushes, if any see

Plucks at a twig of Evidence

And asks a Vane, the way

Much Gesture, from the Pulpit

Strong Hallelujahs roll

Narcotics cannot still the Tooth

That nibbles at the soul”

“Very nice, pet.” Spike compliments, voice a dangerous low that goes completely over Willow's head, so excited she is about the poem.

“I know, right? It's about how little we know, about life and afterlife and everything. How we are not done even if it sometimes seems like we know so much. In truth we have so little knowledge.”

“I get it, it's a nice one.” He steps closer to her, he can't help it. “I feel closer to the other still. Vampires are all about hedonism. Demons in general.” He stops near enough that his chest is almost touching the book she's still holding. Willow looks up at him, as if she only now noticed his approach.

“Yeah, uh, yes. But I guess humans are too, at least according to her. I'm pretty sure she was human, so-” Willow stops talking when she notices how Spike is looking at her, unblinking, eyes half-lidded.

They stand there together, as if time slows down for a fraction of a moment. Spike can hear Willow's heartbeat accelerate, can smell the adrenaline released into her blood, can see the tensing of her muscles in an instinctive preparation for fight or flight. Her pupils dilate, black overtaking most of the green of her eyes.

In that moment, she is prey and he is predator. If he could, if Spike were able to, he would rip her throat out, taste her to the last drop. Her smell is delicious, clean, sweet and powerful. One of his hands rises, with vampiric quickness, to hold her in place by the back of her neck. Willow doesn't move an inch, a type of fright she rarely experienced before taking over her. She isn't afraid at all, but her body seems to disagree, like she has no control over its reactions.

“Spike?” She manages to squeak out a question.

He pulls her even closer. The book she is holding falls on the ground with a dull thud, forgotten. Spike feels like he's aware of every single cell in her body. How her blood rushes through her veins, her heart beats, her breathing catches. He leans down, face closer and closer to hers. Until finally, he touches his lips to hers. Her mouth is open in an attempt to gulp in more air, so his tongue slides in promptly.

She whimpers and he growls. Her taste is better than he imagined, it makes his head spin. Willow goes limp, as if she loses her strength, and he puts an arm around her waist, bringing her body closer to his without ever stopping the kiss. She responds to him, holding onto his arms, kissing him back.

The kiss rises in intensity slowly but surely. Spike can feel his pulsating hardness press against her, can smell her arousal as it starts to escape, pooling on her underwear. His existence is narrowed to his need to rip her clothes off and make her scream.

He starts by tearing her blouse, the ripping sound it makes is music to his ears. He never stops kissing her, afraid she will say 'no' or 'stop' as soon as her mouth in unoccupied. The urgency he feels in his veins to take her, to have her, is so intense he thinks he might combust if it's denied.

He will give her no time to back down, no opportunity to run. Spike pushes Willow, holding her to him so she doesn't fall, until she rest against a smooth stone wall. He hoists her up and she obligingly crosses her legs around his hips, moving against his erection. Impatiently, he shoves his hand under her skirt, pushing her underwear to the side and suddenly burying two fingers inside her warm tightness.

And she's tight. The redhead squeals softly at the intrusion, muffled by his mouth on hers. He keeps a punishing rhythm, in and out, her core clenching around his fingers. She whimpers at the loss when he takes them out to unbuckle his pants, wasting no time to pull his member out.

“Spike.” She moans his name and it sends shivers down his spine, how much she wants it, how much she's enjoying this.

He positions himself against her entrance, lust and impatience overcoming him. He holds her body tightly as he pushes in at once. As he wanted to, Willow screams, part pain, part pleasure. It doesn't even occur to Spike that there's no agony from his chip at hurting her, no immediate punishment. Only the exquisite feeling of her tight cunt begrudgingly taking him in. He pushes in with no respite, not until his pelvis rests flush against hers, not until he can feel the deepest parts of her clenching desperately at him, as if unsure if they want to push him out or pull him in.

She squeals prettily when he trusts in hard and deep, bumping into her cervix, stretching her open to the very core. He licks her lips, biting softly, then down her chin to her neck. Her skin feels softer than he pictured it, smooth and unblemished, he tastes her pulse point, his sensitive tongue feeling her heartbeat right there. If he bit her on that spot, she would bleed out in his mouth in a matter of seconds. But he contents himself with licking, kissing and lightly biting, just holding the flesh between his teeth.

Willow shudders at his ministrations, more vulnerable than she ever felt in her life. It's like the vampire is everywhere, over her, around her, inside her, claiming and taking. She trembles under his harsh pace, pressure rising between her legs with each stroke until it's unbearable. When she comes it's with a scream, one that feels ripped out of her, like she had absolutely no power over it. It's pleasure so intense it feels like pain. She clenches tightly around the invasion driving into her, and her core hurts as well, tight muscles being forcefully stretched.

But he doesn't stop. He goes on, unwavering, unforgiving. Willow pleads and moans, hands holding his shoulders tight, nails biting into his flesh even through the shirt he's still wearing. She feels his face change against her neck, the sharp points of his fangs pressing on her skin. Like a frightened animal she stays very still, barely breathing, afraid like she never has been before but at the same time… not.

Another painfully, maddeningly intense orgasm is fucked out of her. At this point, Willow feels like a wreck of herself, like she's enduring his assault, as if it's all she can do. Even the pleasure he brings is punishing in it's intensity, the harshness with which it overcomes her. How he doesn't slow down or stop, just keeps on going harder and harder. Tears slide down her eyes she feels so overwhelmed, but she never says 'no', never pleads 'stop'. She's afraid if she does, he will. She's terrified if she does, he won't.

“Willow.” He groans her name against her neck, as close as he can be to biting her without actually doing so. Everything about the girl is blinding pleasure, unholy desire. He wants to fuck her and to torture her, to kill her and keep her forever. He wants to make her scream again and again, from pleasure and pain and everything in between. But she's so delicious, too delicious, and he feels himself nearing the end earlier than he wished.

When he cums inside of her, he does so clutching her body, arms like a cage, buried as deep within as possible. She whimpers and squirms as he pumps, once, twice, until he finally twitches, spent.

They both breathe heavily, him more out of a leftover habit he never quite managed to shake, her somewhat wheezing, gulping in air like there isn't enough oxygen in the room. He caresses her smooth, fiery strands softly, in contrast to his nearly violent taking. Spike carries her on his arms, laying her down on the bed carefully. Her skirt completely rode up, bunched around her waist. Her underwear is still pushed to the side, revealing gleaming, pink flesh. Her ripped shirt shows her bra, white with blue lace.

She watches him as he watches her, standing over her half-naked body. Spike wishes he had a camera to immortalize this vision. Or the talent Angelus had for drawing. As he has neither, he drinks in his fill, committing her to memory.

He then leans over, grabbing the sides of her skirt and panties and pulling both down. Willow sits up, allowing him to remove her blouse as well, unhook her bra and let it fall. Her small breasts heave with every breath, the cadence of it almost hypnotizing. Completely naked, on his bed, pink and disheveled, smelling of him. Even prettier. Spike quickly divests himself of his clothes, with no ceremony, before stalking closer to his prey.

He kneels on the bed, her body between his legs, and crawls forward until he's straddling her rib-cage, his semi-erect member bobbing in front of her face. Her pupils are blown out so large her eyes look black. She's riding so many endorphins she's out of herself. Spike wonders if she will need prompting, but she doesn't.

The witch takes his member inside her warm mouth, licking up the glittering juices her own arousal spread all over it. He slides his fingers between the smooth strands of her hair, guiding her head further down, firmly. He has no idea how much practical experience she has had with fellatio, but she seems to know enough to get by. Still, she gags when he hits the back of her throat, big eyes looking up at him the whole time. He pushes her, allowing her to ease off if she needs to, but encouraging to try to take him deeper and deeper.

When his cock finally slides inside her throat, it feels like a victory. He watches her face, pink from lack of oxygen and wet with tears, holding her head in place, fucking her mouth at a leisure pace. He makes sure to allow her to breathe often enough to do her no harm, but is no more merciful than that. Yet, she doesn't stop him, doesn't protest.

When he comes, he shoots so deep inside her throat she tastes nothing of it, has no choice but to swallow. He pulls out and she gasps for air, gulping. Her chin is covered in spit and Spike uses the corner of the duvet to wipe it off. Her tears he licks away, enjoying their salty taste, before kissing her for long minutes, unbothered by the taste of their fluids in her mouth. She looks almost more out of air when he pulls back.

He crawls away, then, until he can lie face-down between her legs, which he pushes open with no delay. Her pussy shines with wetness, pink and clenching before his eyes. She's cleanly shaved, which is at least one thing Spike imagines he could thank Tara for. The smell of her is tangy and sweet, and when he leans down to get his first taste, he can only describe it as delicious. He laps up her arousal, tuning out his own rekindled need while he pays attention to her.

The whimpers he hears from Willow, mixed in with 'please's and his name, spur him on. Plunging his tongue inside, he can taste his own cum in her. Most of his face is quickly covered with her arousal, but Spike doesn't mind one bit. He makes sure to use his advantage of not needing to breathe to drive his little witch crazy, alternating between pushing inside of her and softly lapping at her sensitive, swollen clitoris. He's pleased when she grabs his hair as she nears her peak, hips squirming so much he has to hold them down.

He keeps her near the peak for a few long, torturous minutes, savoring her pitiful cries for mercy. But at last he relents, and a few well-placed flicks of his tongue are enough for Willow to come with a cry and a rush of juices, which Spike is more than happy to drink in. It's not blood, but it's delicious in it's own right.

When Willow is reduced to occasional twitching instead of continuous, he rises. Her body is spread on the bed, vulnerable and clearly well-used, her red locks spread all over, sweat pooling on her reddened face. Spike leans down to kiss her, deeply.

Then, with barely any warning, with one hand holding her shoulder and the other one on her hip, he pulls her body until she's turned around, the ivory expanse of her back facing him. He then pushes her hips up, positioning her body as he likes. She doesn't resist at all, laying her head against the bed but staying in the pose he put her. Spike slides his hands over the softness of her skin, down the flesh of her behind. All her most intimate places completely exposed to him. When his finger grazes her anus, she flinches.

With no further waste of time, Spike mounts her, sliding inside her core easily now, she's so wet and relaxed. Holding her hips, he starts a steady pace of deep, long strokes, all hitting that exact place inside of her that makes her clench and moan. He grabs her hair but doesn't pull it, squeezes her ass but doesn't slap it. Her skin is so pale his squeezing is enough to make it pink all over. She gets the hint and arches her back when he lightly pulls on her hair.

It takes no time at all for her to come the first time. Nor the second or the third. By the time he finally can't take it anymore, Willow is completely limp under him, with no strength left to hold herself up. He pounds her helpless body relentlessly, enjoying every second fully to the last, knowing tomorrow will be a completely different day. He comes hard and deep, one last time, more the release of pleasure instead of semen by now, even with his demonic constitution. It's fulfilling regardless and it makes him wish he could keep going, could never stop.

But he pulls out then, fatigued himself, and plops down on the bed beside Willow. He rests an arm around her, pulling her closer, breathing in her sweet scent. He thought she might have passed out near the end, but she turns to look at him, eyes still not quite back to their usual green.

“What have we done, Spike?” She asks him, voice small.

He has no good answer for her. All he knows is that he regrets not one second of it, hopes to do it again as many times as he can get away with.

“Let's worry in the morning, love. Sleep now.” He orders, running his fingers over her hair, pushing a lose strand away from her face. She watches him for a while, until tiredness wins and her eyes close. When she shivers, he pulls the duvet over them, knowing he has no body heat to keep her warm in the night. Still, he follows into slumber not long after, possessively holding her close under the covers.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: for rough sex, very NSFW.


	3. Chapter 3

It's still long before dawn when Spike is woken by the rubbing sound of clothes being put on carefully. He opens his eyes to near full darkness and easily identifies the contours of Willow as she finishes putting on her shirt, her back to him.

“You don't have to leave so soon, pet.” He pushes himself up to his elbows, watching as her back goes ramrod straight. Caught in the act.

“Yes, I do.” She says, firmly.

He watches silently as Willow searches for her shoes in the darkness. He can see them clearly, but she can't. She tries feeling the floor with her feet, unsuccessfully.

“Spike.” She says, frustrated. He pretends not to know what she's on about. “Spike, my shoes.” She tries again.

“You're not wearing any, yeah.”

She sighs heavily at that. When she turns to him, her expression is one of pinched frustration. Somewhere in the way her mouth turns down and her brown furrows, there's also anger and sadness.

“Can you tell me where they are?” Her voice is tight.

“Ask nicely.” He provokes.

Willow stops, looking in his direction with eerie acuity. He's sure she can at best see a shadow where he lies, but no more. Yet, her gaze is penetrating.

“I have a teenager who lost her mother not a year ago, lost her sister 40 days ago and who has only little old me to look after her waiting for me to come back. I can't stay until morning and I need my shoes to leave. Spike, please.”

She looks so sad. Spike isn't sure he has seen her quite this defeated before, not even on the days following Buffy's death or during her night of reckless drinking after breaking up with Tara. However, a surge of fiery anger burns up his throat at her behavior. Shaggin' him like a woman possessed only to treat him like trash right after. He hadn't noticed before, but he expected different from her. He would have pictured this from Buffy, but not from Willow.

And so he yields the one weapon he still has at his disposal to hurt her back.

“Rubbish. All grown up, Red, but turns out you're still the same; a pathetic little girl terrified of stepping out of line.”

When he sees tears shimmer in her eyes, he smirks at his victory, demon somewhat sated by throwing back the hurt she just gave him. He sees her bite her lower lip, turn her head as if considering just leaving, shoes or not. But when she turns back, shoulders square with anger, her answer catches him like a slap to the face.

“You know what? Yes, Spike! I'm terrified. Completely, out-of-my-mind terrified. I'm barely 21 years old and I have a teenager to raise by myself. You know what happens to things I try to take care off? I had gold-fishes once. Angelus strung them up in a neat little envelope for me, I didn't even got them for a whole week! And the time I took care of an egg-baby for a science project? It turned out to be a mind controlling monster. Even plants I care for die painful deaths. And now I have a whole human person who depends on me for every-single-thing from food, clothes, a place to live, education and emotional support. I didn't ask for it and I'm not ready for it. But I have to be.”

She stops talking for a moment, breathing hard. Tears slide down her face unnoticed.

She goes on.

“And-and, you know, on top of that there's also the fact that we are here standing on a Hellmouth which likes to open at least twice a year in very badly-timed, scary, monster-y apocalypses. There's no Slayer left to take care of it, Faith is too busy being in prison and Buffy is _dead_. She's gone and there's no one strong enough to keep up with all the baddies I know are coming. No one but pathetic little me, Spike. You're a soulless, chipped vampire who couldn't care less. Giles is leaving, Xander and Anya are just human and Buffybot is just, well, not.” She moves her arms emphatically as she speaks, pointing at her, at him and then letting them flap by her sides as she finishes.

The next part is spoken in a much lower, more vulnerable tone.

“But that's not even the worst part, Spike. It isn't. The worst part is that there's a hole inside where Buffy used to be. She was… _is_ my best friend and I will never see her again. Never talk to her again. I'm terrified because there's no Slayer and I'm terrified because there's no Buffy. Not because of what she did or the burden she carried so we didn't have to, but because of _her_. I miss her so much, everyday. And Tara… Tara who was the one light and the one person who made me feel like I could somehow do it can't stand to be with me anymore. And I'm not enough, Spike. I'm just not. Never was and never will be. Not enough to care for Dawn or to save the world or to keep things I care about alive. So when it happens, when someone else dies or Dawn turns out bad or the world ends, it will be my fault. Mine.”

Spike stays very still. Unsure how to answer, unsure if he even should. Not when all she said is some shade of the truth, not when he missed the actual size of the burden eating away at her. He knew some, yes. But he never really stopped to think about the price, what it would take from her. Truthfully, until a few days previously, he didn't care at all. As long as she did what she was supposed to and remained quiet, he was glad.

“Your shoes are by the corner, to your left.” He chooses to say, instead.

Willow doesn't give any response, but turns to the given direction. After putting on said shoes, he expects her to leave immediately, but she lingers, standing very still.

“For what's worth it, Spike, what happened tonight is by far the less crappy thing that has happened to me in the last 40 days. Even if now it makes me all confused about why I enjoyed it so much when you are -” Defensiveness grips at him for a moment. “- well, a male, with a penis and everything.” He relaxes and can't help but be amused by the way she says it. “So, thank you for being there for me, in your own demon-y, soulless way.”

“Anytime, pet.” He teases softly, knowing she intends this to be a one-time performance. He does, too. He wouldn't mind enjoying the witch’s body further, but somehow, in the dark passionless hours after the fact, it feels like a betrayal of Buffy.

She gives him a small smile before leaving. After all she said and considering the fact she was distraught enough that it didn't occur to her to cast a spell to light up the crypt, Spike quickly puts on pants and his duster, stepping outside still in time to see her shadow walk between the tombs. He follows her home from a distance to make sure she gets there in one piece, spurred on by a new awareness of how important the role she plays is in maintaining the status quo he unlives on.

Doesn't matter how pointless his existence feels now, chipped and without Buffy, there are still treads he grabs on to stay afloat. He didn't know before, barely suspected, but Willow just might be the most important one of them all. The one that keeps all the others whole and in place. She's pulled tight by the weight, fraying at the edges, but Spike will do what he can to keep her from snapping. For no other reason than the selfishness of the soulless; he doesn't want to lose what little he still has.

 

 


End file.
